


Lilac Ichor

by yer_a_fangirl_castiel



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insecure Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Overworking, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Self-Harm, Shiro (Voltron) Has a Clone, Suicidal Thoughts, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-01-30 21:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12661848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yer_a_fangirl_castiel/pseuds/yer_a_fangirl_castiel
Summary: Lance has insecurities, and the only one who will listen is the dark emptiness of the training room.The Castle of Lions tries to help, and Keith gets involved.





	1. Please

The castle knew all of their secrets.

From the time when Altean civilization was thriving, the Castle of Lions had been designed in a similar way to the lions that it housed, complete with a consciousness and a way to neurologically bond with those that she chose to.

She watched as Allura slept for thousands of years. 

She watched as her beloved lions finally came home, calling out to each one as they returned to their nest, reveling in the childlike glee they expressed as they were reunited once more.

She glowed with pride as the new paladins stepped into the footsteps of the old ones, those glowing personalities that she had almost forgotten in their long vacancy.

She took hit after hit, sacrificing her well-being so that Voltron could defeat evil.

And when Zarkon was defeated and she lost Shiro, her heart broke.

For the first time, she considered reaching out, telling the grieving paladins that it would be alright.

She decided against it.

That was, until, the blue paladin started going out every night.

She couldn’t bear the thought of it, and tried to form a link.

But she was unable to connect, and had to watch in horror as one of her children sank into a despair so deep that she could not decipher where he dredged up the ability to convince the others he was normal.


	2. Don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Lance does when he "goes out" at night.

Lance was sitting up in his bed, legs dangling over the edge, his posture perfect, mannerisms akin to those of a robot. The room was coated in artificial darkness, simulating an Earthen nighttime, and in the rooms around him, he knew the other paladins were sleeping peacefully. His own eyes, however, refused to close, staying unwaveringly trained on the clock that was slowly ticking down the minutes until all of the other paladins had fallen into a deep enough sleep. He dared not close his eyes, for he knew that images of his own failures would be cemented behind his eyelids, and his thoughts would become the traitorous things of nightmares. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. Insomnia was a bitch, but he’d lived with it for so long it was simply another part of his broken self. Willing the seconds to count faster, he stood silently and grabbed his bayard. 

At long last, the clock struck 1:00, and he knew, by routine, that Hunk’s midnight snack was over and the yellow paladin had returned to his room and promptly fallen asleep, just as he did every night. Pidge had stopped her technology work and taken off her glasses, Shiro had finished his final dorm check to make sure they were all asleep (Lance had become very good at faking it), Keith was done with his fevered late-night training and shower, and Allura and Coran always got a full eight hours. 

Still, he forced his steps to be silent as he quietly opened his door, sticking his head out to see if the coast was clear. No one was in sight, so the Cuban darted out of his room and through the long, dim hallways of the castle.

The castle watched as the lone figure halted at the training room, entering the facility with an air of someone who had done this many times before. She watched as he initiated sequence after sequence. Sorrow infused her, for she knew what happened next.

In the training room, a sweaty Lance was fighting with all he had, pushing away his insecurities with every well-aimed shot. Robot after robot fell, but nothing could diminish his dark sadness that ate away at his brain. Lance had long since learned to school his features into a purely expressionless mask, so he allowed himself a small reward if he could pass ten levels without fail. His prize was that for one level, he could pour his feelings into his fighting, all of the pain, the self-hatred, everything.

He relished screaming in anger, letting the sour loathing infuse his shots, feel powerful and emotionally open.

The first ten levels were completed in a breeze.

The next ten were harder, but he still got his reward on the 21st level.

On the 34th level, Lance’s arms began to tremble with effort of holding his gun. His legs felt like noodles, useless beneath him, but he continued fighting with passion.

Levels blurred together as Lance’s eyesight dimmed, the vibrant blue becoming a dull navy, his limbs leaden with too much work. And yet the paladin kept pushing, aspiring for new heights, ignoring the headache that was eating away at his skull.

Finally, Lance collapsed in exhaustion, unable to continue. His breaths were irregular and harsh, his body completely spent. Above him, the training sequence echoed loudly, “SEQUENCE FAILED.” in that disembodied voice that Lance had become exceedingly familiar with.

Out of the pale lips, bloodless from overwork, a quiet, “End training sequence,” trailed from his mouth, causing the bright lights to go off, plunging the boy into sheer darkness. 

He faded in and out of consciousness for a while, his body completely spent. About an hour later, he stabilized, and was able to stay conscious for long enough to begin the metal portion of his self-abuse.

There, on the cold training floor, Lance let himself collapse inwards, allowing himself to take the brunt of every horrible thing he had been internalizing all day. Whenever someone rolled their eyes, he knew he was irritating and useless. Whenever he messed up during a mission, he knew it would be better to for the team to find another paladin for Blue. Whenever he tried to lift everyone’s spirits, he was met by groans and the knowledge that he was an obnoxious brat that no one wanted around. Whenever Keith beat him effortlessly in training, despite Lance’s nightly workouts, Lance knew that he would never compare. Whenever Keith patted him on the back on the rare occasion Lance did well, the glaring comprehension that the burning feeling that consumed his heart would never be reciprocated. But he pushed it down, forced a smile, and knew he would release himself when night locked the others far away from him.

He transformed these poisonous thoughts into a tight ball in his gut, a sickly sphere of hatred that he unleashed upon himself every night. This way, no one ever had to know how much he was dying inside. It was his secret. Every day, he tried anew, to be better than the last. But he never improved.

Tonight was especially bad. They had formed Voltron today, and his screw up had almost cost them the battle. During debriefing, Lance absorbed every hateful comment tossed his direction. Like a sponge, he soaked up the criticism with a joke and a forced smile, but here, alone, in the dark, he could wring it all out.

 

Lance curled himself into a tight ball, head bowed over his knees, arms wrapped around his bent legs, and hands grasping at his own flesh so tightly it would have been painful if he had been fully aware of it. Nails bit mercilessly into the bare skin of his arms, adding to the collections of crescent-shaped scars that had taken up permanent residence along his biceps. Sobs burst forth savagely from his throat, tears falling like spikes of iron. His brain whirred with hatred and self-doubt, drowning out any other emotion. His breath was hot and ragged, suffocating him in his own prison of heated skin and fiery tears. Shuddering violently, words began to pour from his wretched mouth, a mantra of loathing that never seemed to end. 

_Useless._ It rang true, clear, solid, and heavy.  


_Annoying._ It was strong, a hammer against his temples.  


_Failure._ It cut deep into his chest, tearing apart his soul.  


_Selfish. Lazy. Disappointment._ Memories of his team yelling at him for his mistakes on the battlefield ricocheted around his skull.  


_Worthless._ A silent scream echoed from his mouth, stretched wide with nothing but air slipping out.  


His inhales were as though he was taking in shards of glass rather than oxygen. Hot tears flowed freely, merging with the icy floor beneath him.

Lance couldn’t stand it anymore. With defiance in his eyes, he yanked his crumbling body into a sitting position and pulled forth his bayard. Closing his eyes, he willed it into a short dagger. The weapon pushed back, recognizing his intentions, and pleading for him not to. 

The paladin’s resolve was too strong, too practiced, too harsh. The blue and white metal vibrated, heartbroken, before melding into a sharp-edged blade. Pulling his shirt upwards, Lance inspected the array of scars littered there, some red and fresh, others pale reminders of years long passed. He believed it was a work of art, and often the lines curled into patterns across his skin, before being slashed to oblivion moments later. He was unworthy of bearing anything beautiful, and therefore his skin was a patchwork of broken beauty, hideous and painful.

The knife slitting the tan flesh was a welcome sensation, so relieving and familiar that he smiled, happy to have a small slice of control when his mind spiraled out of hand. As scarlet blood stained the innocent white edge of the dagger, Lance felt his thoughts diminish, leaving only a void of feeling, something that he relished.

The castle screamed, as she always did, imploring him to let her in, let her help. She felt her lions wailing helplessly alongside her, Blue’s cries on the verge of deafening, but the slumped figure had firmly defended his mind against all positivity.

The knife curved along the collarbone of the lost man, digging in with terrifying precision. His head leaned back, and he grunted softly, appreciating the few moments of relief that he savored. Garnet-hued liquid trailed serenely down marred flesh, delicately tracking lines towards his lap.

A single word escaped him as his blade roved over the expanse of skin.  
“Keith.”  
Because when Lance took control of his mind, he was allowed to let the oceans of feelings for the long-haired paladin let loose. There was no thought of unattainable, only marvelous possibility and hope. There was golden memories of smiles, of bonding moments, of faked rivalries to get those eyes to land on his. There was jealousy, but there was always a happy ending, and hand in his.

So every night he would carve at his own skin, taking control, and letting go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I will update within the next few days.


	3. Hurt,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance's veil of happiness begins to become a part of him, a character that is too easy to play.

Life in the waking world was as normal as it could be aboard a giant alien ship. Lance cracked jokes and internalized every rejection. Silently, the words of his teammates infiltrated his mind, warping into hideous, unspoken, self-hatred. With the help of the Altean healing cream he'd stolen from the healing pod room, the deep shadows under his eyes and prominent bruises went unnoticed, healed before Lance left his room every morning.

Five minutes with the gel smeared over his skin transformed the red-eyed, sleep-deprived, defeated boy into Lance, blue paladin, the cocky flirt who was able to let insults bounce right off of him. Lance, with eyes that sparkled and a smile that was so bright it rivaled the stars. A mask, a perfect mask, something that concealed the true hopelessness in his stature.

Sometimes, he found a small glimmer of hope, and a bit of his old glow cracked through his cover. The combination of fake and real happiness shined too bright, blinding those within a close radius. It happened rarely, because it was obnoxious, and no one enjoyed it. 

That's what Keith said, rolling his eyes and calling him a moron. 

That’s what Shiro scorned, eyes filled with disappointment. 

That's what Hunk sighed, his own cheery demeanor too overwhelmed to handle it. 

That's what Pidge scowled, dismissing him quickly, with annoyance infusing the flicker of her fingers across her keyboard.

So the tiny glow of hope was extinguished, and the mask healing itself over the fracture. Every time, Lance vowed to never bear his soul again, because it was obvious no one wanted to see it. But then he slipped up again, and their dismissive actions snowballed further.

Once in a rare while the facade dropped revealing Lance, the true Lance, the Lance that was broken but not yet destroyed, shone through. It would only occur in lieu of a specific event.

Keith’s laugh.

Whenever Keith laughed, his real laugh, violet eyes glowing and head tilted backwards, Lance’s disguise slipped. In its place, there was awe, and a pure note of happiness. The shield that protected him fell away, disintegrating as the dark-haired boy beside him shook with mirth.

But that was rare, and the mask soon began to meld into him, covering up who he truly was. Time passed, and yet no one even suspected that their joyful Lance was slowly losing himself in the deep, churning storm of his mind.

Five minutes was all he allowed himself, five minutes to transform, five minutes to paint on that camouflage that he hid behind every single day. Every day it got easier and easier to cover who he truly was. Being a robot, pre-programmed with fake emotions and predictable actions, was easier than being human.

Five minutes, day after day.

Lance only had one rule about the cream, the cream that allowed the disguise to slip easily into place. His rule was that he would never heal his self-inflicted scars. They were a reminder of who he was behind the concealment, stinging when Hunk gave him a hung or when he took a shot to the chest during training. He could forget, sometimes, but they were always there, an army against his sole soldier.

They were also a reminder.

A reminder that Keith was unattainable, too good for him, too much.

And that he would never love Lance back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sadness!! The next chapter is when Keith gets involved.


	4. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith finds out.

Keith paced towards the Red lion’s hangar, his steps even and lonely, echoing off the long corridor. Allura had claimed that they all needed to bond with their lions for a few hours in order to strengthen Voltron’s bond. She was still a bit frazzled from yesterday’s close call, and had sharply rebuked Lance when he showed up late. He had burst in frantically, apologies dripping from his lips, only to be uncaringly rebuffed and insulted. Keith had caught a flash of defeated sorrow in his azure eyes, before it was quickly replaced with his normal, cheery self. He’d been meaning to ask Lance if he was alright, tell him that Allura was just stressed. Unfortunately, they’d all been hustled off to their lions after the meeting, and he hadn’t gotten the chance.

 

The instant he stepped foot in Red’s hangar, he felt a spike of concern and fear radiating off of her. The sharp, overwhelming onslaught of emotion rang harsh and strong in his skull, giving him a deep headache and putting every single one of his nerves on edge.

Keith’s instinct reaction to his lion’s frantic mind assault was panic, his brain instantly battle-ready, prepared to fight anything to defend Red. He drew his bayard with a practiced caution, his eyes scanning for potential threats, rapidly darting across the room. The paladin’s observation caught no initial intruders, so Keith reached up to his helmet to call Voltron. Promptly, he felt Red’s hysteria subside, finally allowing his head to catch up with his instincts.

His hand dropped from his helmet as he felt her carefully retract her claws of agitation in comprehension of how overbearing she had been. A soft apology echoed through him, along with the promise of answers. The headache dissipated, leaving only a unreachable itch that still stated that something was wrong. She sent a shaky reassurance that everything was alright, and although both lion and paladin knew it was false, Keith felt gratitude for the motherly gesture. 

She opened her mouth, inviting him into her cockpit for answers to the buzzing nervousness that continued to murmur relentlessly at the back of his mind. Keith, impulsive as ever, scampered forwards, eager to fight whatever had caused his lion so much distress.

Once inside, he gently asked what was wrong, wishing to abate the sense of urgent desperation still fizzled in their shared mind. Without warning, his mind was bombarded with the anguished cries of the Blue Lion, a vision of blood trailing across skin in the wake of a white blade (was that a _bayard?_ ), the sound of a man’s breath, irregular heaves just praying for air, the feeling of pain so deep-seated and heavy that it blended into his bones, the flash of a huddled form, sobbing, a friend in need, a wail of despair---

As quickly as the visions started, they stopped, like a faucet being abruptly pulled shut. Gasping, Keith found himself in the pilot's chair, his hands clenching the armrests so tightly that his fingers had turned white. His bayard had clattered uselessly to the floor when the floodgates of thought had been opened. The red paladin was left breathless and confused, his mind struggling to piece together the fragments of memory. The splitting headache had returned, and he felt as though he’d just trained for several hours. Limbs shaking, he put his head in his hands and leaned over, trying vainly to make sense of the broken flashes.

Red was apologizing, filling his head with nonsensical sorrow and cluttering his brain with regrets. After a moment of catching his breath and struggling to regain order in his whirling head, Keith sat up and firmly requested for her to show him all of the details, the full story. The Red Lion was hesitant, warning him with tender flicks of her consciousness. At his insistence, however, she gently slipped full memories into his head. One by one, they filled in the scraps from the onslaught.

A dark figure fighting on the training room floor, a dance with death and exhaustion that clouded his moves. Keith strained to see the face of the indecipherable person, but his efforts were futile. Frustration mounted, pulsing in his eye sockets and peaking as the figure collapsed, cut down from his deadly performance. Concern replaced vexation when the silhouette did not rise. Keith tried to call out, but he found that he couldn’t breath, and suddenly _he_ was the figure against the cold floor, dangling on the edge of consciousness, numb and yet also burning with fatigue. He screamed, disoriented, and his own desperate wail echoed in his ears as he was swept to the next memory.

The sharp edge of a bayard and the bloody slashing of designs that were drawn so methodically. Keith’s breath caught in his throat, a lump of pain filling in where oxygen was supposed to go. _How_ had he not realized this? Wasn’t he supposed to be able to tell? He had scars of his own, and he was still blind to another's agony. Self-disappointment drowned him as he was plunged into the next vision.

Layers of scars and deep purple bags under eyes, as Keith yearned against Red’s slow storytelling. 

_“Who?”_

But she continued without an answer, only a trace of Altean healing cream, one sleepless night, and then another, until it all blurred, out of focus, just a whirlwind of pain and lost hope. Words echoed in Keith’s head and it felt as though he was being strangled, his windpipe cut off.

 _Useless._  
Keith knew that voice.

 _Annoying._  
That was--

 _Failure._  
It couldn’t be.

 _Selfish._  
There was no way that he would ever think--

 _Lazy._  
How could he ever truly believe--

 _Disappointment._  
But- he-

 _Worthless._  
No.

And Keith was sobbing without air, because he couldn’t believe the voice that spoke those words, and no, it couldn’t be _him,_ not him, anyone else please, just not--

Not Lance.

Not the boy with the smile of a sunset, full of life and vibrant joy.  
The boy with a laugh of waves crashing into the shore, never holding back, free and full of feeling.  
The boy who flirted and joked around, his soul bare to anyone who cared to hold it.  
A bird that not only flew, but _danced_ in the air, singing with the air currents and twining itself with nature.  
Not him, not the one who Keith had hollowed out a home for in his heart.

By the end of the slideshow, Keith was weeping into his palms, a fire burning in his gut. His heart felt as though it had been torn from his chest and shredded. His throat burned from the force of the revelation. His palms stung from where he had clenched his fists together with so much force that it had hurt. Tears fell, rapid and heavy, full of emotion. The red paladin buried his head in his knees and wrapped his arms around himself, unable to cope with such a reality.

A broken whisper faded from him, unsteady and questioning.

_“Lance.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This is kind of a late birthday present for my friend so please say hi! It would mean a lot to her. Thanks!


	5. Need

**FAILURE**  
FAILURE  
FAILURE  
CUT DEEP  
RELIEF   
RELIEF  
FAILURE  
FAIL--- 

They’d failed to form Voltron during practice today. Lance was incapable of opening his brain to the others and spilling out his secrets. He had no more defenses to block out the memories of his nightly escapades, and he knew that if the found out, he would never get to feel the sweet kiss of a blade again. Besides, he could never reveal how messed up he was, lest they realize what he truly was. 

He was the weak link, and he knew it. They should simply get rid of him, cut off ties and find a more suitable blue paladin. He was the reason everything always went wrong; a black hole, dragging in dreams and hopes of success. 

Of course, he was aware of his uselessness already, but the risk of the others discovering the truth, of being kicked out… 

He just couldn’t cope with that.

So that night he was reckless, heading out at 12:30, risking encountering Hunk, but the need for a calming blade was too great to resist. With everyone angry at him for his failures today, he couldn’t stand another minute of the raging torment from his brain. His footsteps were sure and even as he sped towards the training room. With every step, the pressure on his chest mounted, and he could feel anticipation building beneath his skin. So blinded by the itching insistence, he failed to notice the red paladin following him stealthily, worry in his eyes and a sharp pain heavily piercing his heart.

The dazzlingly bright lights of the training room were a welcome sting to Lance’s eyes, bringing adrenaline to his bloodstream. He jogged to the center of the floor, appreciating the familiar metallic scenery. His stride was purposeful, determined to move up a couple levels before he let himself submerge in his personal ocean of hatred. 

This was his routine, and he loved how stable it made him feel. Craving release and a clear mind, Lance positioned himself into his fighting stance, heart pumping in anticipation. His voice rang out in the empty room, demanding the beginning of the level. His words were crisp and professional, very unlike the bouncing speech that the rest of the team knew so well. In a single exhale, any emotion was wiped from his face, eradicating the cheerful teen that had vibrantly flirted with Allura only hours prior. The smooth flourish that transformed his bayard into a rifle was an almost ritualistic execution, the deadly weapon too comfortable in his hands. 

_“Training Level 1. Commencing.”_

He clenched his jaw and began to fire his way through the endless ranks of soldiers, dancing around shots, blocking weapons with a stony expression, completely devoid of any feeling. Reality faded, and he let himself plunge in the calm water that drowned his senses. Nothing existed beyond the white and gold robots that streamed towards him and the solid weight of his gun in his hands. The world was muffled, as if covered in snow, blanketed from the harsh sun of truth. In this silent reality, Lance was finally in control. 

The blue paladin was so intensely absorbed in his battle, he failed to hear the swish of the training deck door opening. 

He was deaf to the quiet footsteps that would have normally alerted him of an intruder.

He did not hear the gasp of awe that emitted from said intruder’s mouth when he saw Lance.

A wonderstruck Keith gazed down at the incredible teen whirling with deadly accuracy beneath the balcony where he stood. It was like a dance, well-practiced steps flowing seamlessly with gut instinct until every bot was down. Keith leaned forward onto the railing and admired the boy’s fighting skill. Levels passed fluidly, a blind shot here, an effortless duck there, that Keith lost track of time. He was mesmerized by the way Lance fought, every movement like choreography, every perfect shot a work of art. It was a performance, a reverent horror that had somehow transcended into a hypnotizing recital.

Without warning, Lance began to scream as the new level started. Keith’s training activated in a split second, his right hand drawing his knife while concern spiked a feverish urge to **protect** deep into his core. Grasping the rail firmly, he braced his muscles for a vault into the arena, his heart pumping wildly and his mouth opening in a cry of warning when—

A foreign presence seized control of his body, immobilizing him in his frantic perch, seconds from descending to the blue paladin’s rescue. 

_The castle knew Keith couldn't interfere. She must hold him back, because he could not stop this now, he must wait.  
“Be patient, my child,” she whispered, softly nudging Keith's brain, “There is much more horror in store, and you mustn't break your cover now. You should know that patience yields focus, young one.”_

Rattled, Keith felt a cool sweat drip from his neck. The presence was similar to Red’s fiery insistence, and in the heat of the moment, Keith accepted the foreign presence. His urge to save Lance ebbed, but continued to lap unwaveringly at his ankles.

Keith settled back against the railing, but he was on edge, his trance broken. Apparently Lance was infusing some terrible rage into his shots, each one with perfect precision and deadly accuracy. Keith, for the first time, felt a chill of fear run up his spine, ghostly fingers brushing his vertebrae one by one. Was this really Lance? His shouts were nearly inhuman, so deeply animalistic that they sounded like a primal beast fighting for its life. His movements were fluid, perfect, like a well-programmed robot that could never miss. The beauty slipped away to reveal something twisted, something horrible.

RIght then and there, Keith knew that he had to fix this. He had to save Lance, no matter how long it took. The boy was dying in the sterile white floor, and no one had batted an eyelash.

 

Lance could feel a presence itching at the edge of his vision, a dark figure in the corner of his eye. As the levels passed it became less of a threat, for it never shot, only hung on the fringes of his mind, suspended in curiosity.

Any thought of the ghost trickled away as fatigue began to reclaim its torturous control of Lance’s body. Once more, his limbs became jellylike, useless, no matter how hard Lance pushed. His steps faltered, and his shots became clumsy. The darkness in his mind taunted about how he was so weak, so useless. And so Lance pushed onwards, diverting all possible energy to the fight. Teeth clenched, knuckles white against his gun, Lance pushed onwards, beating back the tongues of poison in his brain that warned him that it was too much. 

Time was blurred into a haze of burning muscles and shots that relied more on sound than sight. Eyes unfocusing randomly, black dots dancing in the hazy world in front of him, Lance vaguely felt as though he had been submerged in thick, choking water. His lungs bloated with the effort it required to draw breath, and his choppy, uneven inhales scraped noisily against his throat. Tears rose unconsciously to his eyes, spikes of pain radiating from his disproportionately heavy head.

A familiar feeble feeling swallowed his limbs, gradually burying him in the deep soil of exhaustion. He fought weakly against the overwhelming tide, but he couldn't climb out of the deep hole he was being buried in. His leaden eyelids flickered, vision clouding with a dark storm of despair. Wheezing with effort, Lance shot down two incoming drones purely by their small sound disturbance in the air. Unfortunately, his weary mind was incapable of processing anything other than the closest threat, and he felt the tingle of pain against the small of his back as a shot connected with his thin shirt. A robot had focused in on his unprotected weak spot and he was falling, down, down, out of the glaring lights of the arena, into cooling darkness.

With a grunt, Lance landed heavily in the chamber beneath the training floor, and immediately collapsed, curling into a ball, trying valiantly to regain his breath. No matter how hard he clawed at the dirt packed into his lungs, he could not clear his airways. Finally, his body’s thin threads of energy snapped, his callused hands, clammy with sweat, fell to the ground, useless. Bathed in the faint blue light that was the room below, Lance lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy December! (sorry for the late update)


	6. Your

_nce..._  
ance?  
Lance?  
**“LANCE!”**

Lance’s eyes drifted open, pupils gradually dilating with the rush of information. Hovering above him was a face, vaguely familiar, its shaggy dark blob of hair nearly brushing his forehead. Slowly, he began to regain feeling, the riptide of darkness relinquishing him into the shallows. Through the foggy haze of his mind, Lance recognized two warm palms pressed firmly to his cheeks. Blinking in confusion, the mist began to clear, allowing him a view of the figure, who was still mouthing incomprehensible words. There was dark hair, _yes, that had been established,_ some striking amethyst eyes, _wow,_ a slight sprinkling of freckles, _mhmmm,_ and _dang, that hair was soft._

His head felt like it had been blown to pieces and stitched back together with barbed wire; but it didn’t matter because this ethereal figure above him was so _heavenly,_ with those warm hands that were so _gentle,_ and that _voice._ A voice that sang with the saints above, rumbling with concern, a melody for immortals to weep over. The gentle tones tickled something in his brain, reminding the sluggish blue paladin of a happiness just out of reach, a bloom of toasty adoration flourishing in his chest.

Still dopey with his recent recovery, Lance reached up and began to stroke the shadowy locks, a placid smile painted across his lips. When his fingers connected with the soft hair, the hazy figure jerked in surprise. The movement caused his head to whir a bit more, clearing up the unclear patches in his vision bit by bit until…

Suddenly, his mysterious angel came into sharp focus, and it was _Keith,_ oh god it was **Keith,** _Keith Kogane,_ he was running his fingers through _Keith Kogane **hair,**_ and their faces were close, like _kissing close,_ and he could feel _Keith's_ breath against his own _lips_ \---

_**“LANCE!”** _

A harsh yell shattered Lance’s internal turmoil, drawing his attention to Keith's _(incredibly beautiful)_ eyes.  
“Y-yes?” Lance replied, his heart beating faster than it probably should be, given the fact he had recently returned from a comatose state.

“What happened? Are you alright?--”

_He’s so close I can feel his chest move when he inhales through those exquisite lips holy **shit**_

“--Oh god, I didn’t think you’d pass out like that, I mean you looked like a ghost, but you kept on shooting so well, and it wasn’t like Red said it would be, oh god Lance please say something, your eyes look all foggy--

_He saw. He saw. He saw.He saw. He saw. He **knows--**_

“--ey! LA--”

Dread entered Lance’s bloodstream like a drip of morphine, a sweet horror that grew like a vine, choking the sunlight from his senses. Unable to cope with a reality where _Keith knew he knew and it was all over, he knows how broken you are, it's the end, you’re finished--_  
Lance caved to it, allowing the strong, thick vines of bitterness drag him under the dark viscous clouds of consciousness once more. They wrapped their venomous tendrils over his eyes, sealing away a desperate boy yearning to help.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Keith hadn’t cried since his fifth foster home.

It was then that he lost his favorite stuffed animal, a hippo that was so well-loved that it had lost all of its silky fur and now just looked like a grubby greyish blob with two scratched-up black eyes.

But to Keith, Hippy the Hippo was everything.

Keith rubbed the little ears whenever he got scared. He held his only friend close whenever foster families screamed at one another and the horribly common sounds of sirens clawed at the bruised air. He let his tears fall into the worn stubble of fur at night.

When his second foster brother put out his cigarettes in Hippy’s round little body and laughed at Keith’s tears, he stole sewing supplies and patched her up. He kissed her nose, just like a real parent would, and promised he’d never let anyone hurt her again. 

When the older boy found out, he decided that Keith’s flesh would be a much more suitable place to stub out the burning ash.

The round burn marks became mostly faded with time, but the charcoal stayed permanently, clogging up the glowing innocence of his soul.

When his third foster dad decided that Keith was much better suited as a punching bag than a human, Keith had Hippy ‘kiss’ all of his bruises, just like a real parent would, and he would hug her so tightly his wounded arms ached. Tears were an everyday occurrence, but Hippy would absorb them with a comforting, sewn-on smile.

So when Foster Mom #5 decided Keith was too old to have stuffed animals and threw Hippy into the fire during another drunken rage, Keith broke.

His bottled up anger from years of maltreatment exploded, and he became an inferno of rage, his entire body quaking with hate as he stood up against her. Tingles raced along his spine as a thorn of wrath pierced his already shattered heart. He felt his throat burn with the words that poured from his lips, and his hands curled into inexperienced fists that shook unsteadily. His eyes bled lava, the eruption so strong it threw him from the surface of the earth, vaulting him into outer space and he was free at last---

In reality, adults don’t take kindly to children who try to stand up for themselves. His precious spark of self-preservation was extinguished by a sharp-edged beer bottle and a week in the hospital. On the ride to his sixth home, he swore he would never bleed those ashy lava tears again, would never let them mar his cheeks with their feverish pain. He vowed to become impassive, to build walls to block out emotion, to become a new person.

Time passed and Keith forgot the scorching heat infused in the barriers he had built, for time makes us forget things as terrible as that. But he remained dry-eyed, unwilling to allow cracks in his carefully forged armour.

 

Keith was crying now.

He cried for the boy who’d ignored those indestructible walls, waltzed into his life and decided to stay. At first, he’d fought it, pushing the taller boy away and pretending he didn’t recognize that indescribably joyful smile. Eventually, he found that Lance held the ability to brighten up his forlorn soul, which had been so dreary and grey. 

And when Keith had finally resigned himself to the intruder, he found that the tan ray of happiness had somehow found a crack in the most unbreakable defense, his heart, weaseled his way into the very core of this dragon's cave. Feeling came back, a few droplets at a time, until Keith found he was able to release crystalline tears for this beautiful being. 

This boy was in a cryopod, his flawless skin stained blue under the frigid artificial lighting and his face frozen in an expression of perfect neutrality. Lance’s barrier of brightness had dulled, allowing an unmasked look at this unreachable shadow of pain and self-hatred. There was no smile to cover the sleepless eyes, no sleeves to cover the pain.

Seeing this treasure so deeply wounded, deep scars lacerating in deep carvings across his bare chest, eyelashes brushing the dark murky pools of below eyes that hadn’t seen an adequate sleep in months, Keith floundered. This jewel had been fractured, his hidden life shoved into the limelight as neon blue glare bounced off of him. 

 

Keith understood. He knew how loving the edge of a blade could seem as it caressed lonely flesh. He understood how much pressure it relieved, how it could be the only thing tethering him down to the earth when the rest of the world spun too fast for him to hold on.

But he’s stopped, because the Garrison didn’t accept ‘mentally ill freaks’ like him. 

Lance hadn’t even batted an eyelash at the regulations. 

Scars flitted across his arms, old and new dancing around each other, crossing paths, melding into a work of human hatred. There was nothing beautiful about the array of scars, despite what Keith had read in online stories that promised he would find a soulmate. No, the scars were hideous, for they showed just how much Lance hated himself. The red or brown color did nothing to enhance his tan skin, it only took away from the smooth complexion and his unspeakable beauty. 

Scars are not beautiful, and they are not to be romanticized. 

But Keith vowed to himself, sitting alone in the cryopod room with his eyes full of tears and his walls crumbling to dust around him, that he would help Lance stop, no matter if it broke his own heart. 

 

Keith released the cryopod a half an hour before wake-up, knowing that Lance would not want to be found like this. He frowned at the translucent screen that ordered several days for recuperation.

When Lance came tumbling out, still scarred but no longer mortally exhausted, he was cold and disoriented. The world was no longer tinged with black goo that trickled across his vision from time to time, but he still stumbled over his own feet. His limbs felt too large and his head felt too small, but somehow everything was balanced in a way he hadn’t felt in months.  
Unexpectedly, a gentle figure braced Lance’s weight against himself, and helped the woozy boy amble to his bedroom. 

“Don’t tell them,” he murmured at the kind soul who was supporting him. “They’ll kick me out and,” his breathing became labored with the stress it took to talk, “I know I don’t bel-belong but if- if they find out the-then…”

He felt breath tickle his ear as the silhouette shushed him, the warm pads of fingers covering his lips with care. 

“Your secret is safe with me.”

Lance found himself in his bed, wrapped in warm blankets, and gave in. The hand carding through his hair and the words that rang in his ears were a slice of home in the dark and confusing world. Lulled into the sense of security, he relinquished his grasp on the waking world once more.


	7. Effortless

_The Castle watched her child slumber, the partly healed body struggling to cope with its heavy injuries, both internal and external. Fraught with nervousness, she nudged the black paladin, the leader, Shiro. He had a kind soul, and she was certain he would listen to her warning. She knew revealing her consciousness was dangerous, but there was no way she could sit by and watch the blue boy wither to ash._

_Despite everything she had come to learn about the leader of Voltron, she found that his mind was rigid, and he surprisingly fought her amiable attempts to connect. Thrashing wildly in his sleep, the man's face contorted with determination as he fought her off._

_Shiro’s reaction to her was abrupt and frightening. Something was different about his mind. It wasn’t_ her _Shiro-- it was as though his soul had been pressed flat and photocopied. She had been so overjoyed at his return that she had simply assumed it was her child, but never examined his inner being like she should have. The “Shiro” was nothing but a paper doll, all compressed anger under the guise of kindness._

_Desperate, she spread her thoughts to the universe, searching for her true Shiro, the one with the gentle eyes and the harsh scars. Galaxies slid past, whirling rapidly in her search, and yet something was fogging her mind, blocking the location. With a determined growl, she swiped away the misty clouds of confusion, mind straining the effort. At long last, she located her missing paladin. Locked away at the edges of the universe, in a desolate galaxy, he lay helpless in a test tube, alone and vulnerable._

_In a rage, she glared at the imposter in her child’s bedroom, incapable of anything other than giving him a terrible night's rest. Consumed in discovery and anger, her thoughts released their grasp on Lance’s predicament._

_And so the blue paladin’s pain was forgotten._

Lance awoke to artificial sunlight pounding on his eyelids and artificial friends pounding on his door. 

“Come on, Lance, get your lazy butt out of bed for quiznack’s sake. Allura says we need training or we’re gonna let down the entire universe or whatever. She’s pretty pissed, so I’d get up now if I were you. Keith explained that you were up late training with him, but he didn’t sleep late. The dude’s a freakin machine, I don’t even know why you try to beat him. You know he’s better than you and he definitely kicked your ass. I bet you’re just sulking in there, you useless lump.”

A laugh echoed from behind the door, and Lance inhaled sharply from the jagged edges of Pidge’s words. The feeling of uselessness rose like bile, but he shoved it down, forcing his muscles to relax. He closed his eyes and exhaled, burying the painful misery deep within him.

“But anyway, seriously, get the quiznack up before Shiro comes around. Someone didn’t wake up on the right side of the bed, so if he sees you lounging he’s gonna throw a fit.”

Lance felt dread brush it’s charcoal hems along his chest, spiked by the previous words that warned of an irate Shiro. 

He coughed, transforming his voice into the boisterous jump that he put on every day. 

“Coming, Pidgeon! Don’t have a Kaltenecker, it's only…” his voice trailed off as he glanced at the clock beside his bed.

The numbers 8:12 flashed savagely on his eyes, still dusty from sleep.

“It’s only 8:12,” he murmured, already slipping back into his warm bed.

He heard Pidge snicker from outside the door. Their voice softly repeated, “Three...Two…”

Confused, he glanced at the clock again. Yeah, it was only 8:12. 8:12. **8:12.**

**“SHIT!”** He yelped, leaping from his bed. Breakfast started at 6:15. He was nearly **two hours late.** No wonder Shiro was angry. Oh god, he was such a screwup. He absolutely hated sleeping late, despite what his cheery persona insisted. Sometimes he was physically unable to get up, due to his overworked muscles and lack of sleep. It frustrated him, but he was always up before 6:30, forcing his stupid body into submission. Now everyone was going to be pissed, and he really didn’t want that. All Lance ever wanted was others to be happy, no matter whether it sacrificed his own well-being. They had all probably thought about finding a new paladin already, one that didn’t sleep in and ruin all of their missions...

Pidge’s laugh and cheerful farewell was drowned by the rush of blood past his ears as he raced to grab his clothes. Ignoring the screaming muscles and the fierce sting of his cuts, Lance hastily pulled on his outfit and charged out the door.

He burst into the training room with a shameful expression and words of remorse wheezed from his panting breaths, only to be met by five angry glares.

“Where the hell were you?” Shiro demanded, stalking up to the messy-haired paladin, violence apparent in every angle of his body. His Galran arm firmly seized Lance’s bicep, and the boy could feel the scabs of healing cuts begin to break. The grip was too tight to be friendly, the cold metal fingers roughly squeezing the muscle. The threatening grasp was used to haul Lance closer to Shiro’s anger-ridden face. Lance shuddered, preparing himself for any type physical abuse, praying that his suffering would make Shiro less angry towards the rest of the team.

“I-I over- I overslept, I’m so s-sorry, I-” His voice quaked, despite the cocky front he always tried to cement into place. Mentally scolding himself, he tried to prop his mask back into place, but it crumbled as he met Shiro’s eyes, a smoldering charcoal stare that dripped with disdain.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, _Lance,_ ” Shiro spat his name like it was utter filth, leaning closer to the terrified paladin before him. His voice lowered, blocking out the attention of the other paladins. “You’re supposed to be worthy of saving the universe, but all you ever seem to be able to do is screw up.” He scoffed, narrowing his eyes. “You’re just the annoying, useless brat who makes Voltron look bad, with all your selfish attempts at being a leader.”

Lance could feel each word like a bullet to the heart; pellets of hatred and misery.

“Maybe we should just find another Blue Paladin.”

Lance’s heart stopped, his worst fears confirmed at last.  
Shiro’s unforgiving eyes scanned him up and down, a seed of hatred and disinterest clearly evident on his face.

“You seem pretty _replaceable_.”

Lance could pinpoint the very moment his heart shattered. 

It was tangible, the sweeping wave of ice that froze his soul, solidifying the few tendrils of happiness that still kept it afloat. He could physically feel his darkened heart leap to his throat, clogging it with cloying sadness that lumped there, stopping his airway. Lance gasped, drawing in tasteless air that did nothing to thaw the frozen soul nor clear his lungs. Painstakingly, his heart dislodged from his throat, and began a long trek to the pit of his stomach, trailing fragments hopes and dreams. He felt the frigid pain as it splintered, burying shrapnel deep under his skin.

An overwhelming sadness overtook him, thick, dark, tingling every inch of his flesh with its icy, merciless hands.

However, on the exterior, the mask was hastily propped into place, with a respectful, “Yes, sir,” and a cheery shot of enthusiasm to his training. He lost himself to the Lance all of the others knew, hiding in the scripted jokes and plastic laughs. No emotions crossed his stark world for the hours that followed, despite the overworked body that screamed for a break or when he felt blood from broken cuts trickle down his chest. The blue paladin became a robot, nothing more than a body with coding that allowed it to speak and move. Any remnant of the Cuban who loved the beach and cried for his family was gone. No one wanted a whiny brat of a paladin, especially one that couldn’t even fight.

Lance continued like ‘normal’, despite the fact that his world had just been disintegrated into shards of broken glass and shoved down his throat.

When he and Keith fought side by side, Lance shot down his heart as their arms brushed. Everything inside of him wailed with sorrow, but he shot his heart, his brain, his feelings, until nothing remained but bloody tatters. His shots were deadly and accurate, his focus impeccable.

He did not notice the tears that fell down his own cheeks as he fought in the final training sequence, crystal drops of compressed emotions.

He did not notice the worried glances Keith sent him afterward, tenderness in his amethyst eyes and a nagging worry in his heart.


	8. Divinity

That night, Lance didn’t bother going to the training room. He traveled instead to Blue’s hangar to gave her one last hug. She was asleep, exhausted by nights of pleading her cub to stop harming his precious soul. Her drowsy purr rumbled through the large room, full of adoration and maternal love. Lance felt a hot tear break his uncaring facade as he hugged her giant nose. Something about the unspoken, yet enormous care for him reminded the blue paladin of home, the smell of food wafting across a wooden table and a warm palm ruffling his hair. More tears joined the first, a rainstorm, just like the ones that pounded his roof while he had huddled in his mother’s arms, safe and sound in the living room. He felt her soothing words whispering against his skin, her distracting laugh, and the way the rain felt when she dragged him to sit in the silky droplets. His chest ached, both a remembrance of the joyful laughter they had shared and a harsh implosion of repressed emotions. Sobs shook him, hard and unrelenting, as his face contorted into a twisted mess of anguish.

“Te quiero.”

He gave the wonderful lion one last longing look, before quietly exiting the hangar, his feet headed directly on a course to the control room. With a careful hand, he scraped through his mind, tearing away at the cancerous hunk of joyful memories, wind ruffling his hair while an elated whoop burst forth from his lips, the feeling of pride as he and Blue executed the perfect move--  
Gone, torn away from him, self-inflicted amnesia.

He slunk away into shadows of a gentle world, darkness softening its jagged edges.

Time felt like syrup against his skin as he walked down the hallway, the alien blue lights sticking out harshly in a universe of hushed tones. Upon his arrival into the room where this life had begun, Lance gazed at the dazzling array of stars gleaming just beyond the glass of the gigantic chamber, sighing in remembrance of the adventures he had experienced aboard this ship. For a moment, he let himself get caught up in the goodness, his first thankful smile from an alien, a child running into its mother's arms with a euphoric cry, the feeling of a job well done as Keith playfully shoved his shoulder, softly smiling in his direction--

Angrily, his mind bit back the positives and forced himself to return to the way his ‘friends’ ignored him, how his failures made so many perish, the way the word _‘replaceable’_ still rang in his ears.

He reminded himself that happiness was flat, two-dimensional, a slate of bitter-tasting nothingness that melted as soon as he got close to it. He was unworthy of ever healing his diseased mind, unworthy of feeling the joy that so often tried to spark in his chest. He was nothing but a replaceable, unloved disgrace, who would be better off dead.

Resolve set, the blue paladin stepped over to his console and tapped in the coding required for the launching of an escape pod. He set the coordinates for Earth, ready to sail amongst the majestic galaxies that he had always yearned to touch.

_And he would have traveled home, past galaxies and rifts in the universe, eyes wide in awe._

_He would have let himself crumble inwards with the pain of years of anxiety hoarding his worst fears._

_And he would have drowned in his own pool of red, slitting his wrists before he ever saw the blue planet._

This would have happened, had it not been for a certain paladin lurking in the hallway, love in his soul and worried eyes carefully tracking Lance’s every move.

“Lance!”

For the first time in years, Lance’s heart didn’t leap at those words. His heart had been totally demolished, and the broken pieces worked feebly to keep him alive. There was no room for feelings in the dark cage of his mind.

Smoothly, like an oiled machine, Lance spun on his heel and faced the boy running towards him. Raven hair askew, eyes bloodshot: he looked like he’d been battling demons in his sleep. If Lance still had a heart, it would have panged with worry for the precious beauty that once meant so much. Now, nothing crossed his mind but a statistical analysis of ways to make the conversation short and unsuspicious.

“Yes, Keith?” Was his reply, short and to the point. He was blind to the way that Keith cringed when he met Lance’s emotionless eyes. 

“Don’t go.” 

Those two words held so much within them: a promise, a plead, an orphaned boy desperate for his only lifeline not to cut himself in half. There was love, barely concealed under the shaky covering of beseeching sorrow. It was a last-ditch attempt to mend what had been broken, an olive branch in a land of famine.

Lance’s pulse stuttered to a frightened halt. There was no way Keith could have deduced that he was leaving Voltron. His bag of belongings was small, and could easily be mistaken for a rolled up jacket. An inkling of fear threaded into his blank head, but it was stamped out immediately. Calm, collected, in control. He would feign ignorance.

“What do you mean? I am simply on a midnight stroll- I- uh-” His mind had overcompensated its own detachment, and somehow slipped into an unrealistic tongue for his facade. Frantically, the gears in his head whirred, desperately trying to fix the suspicious slip-up.  
“I mean- I’m just walking. There’s no need to come with me. I’ll be back soon and I will get enough rest so I’m not late for tomorrow's training.”  
His tone was formal and decisive, but he was proud of the cover he had pulled over the mistake.

_“You’re a mistake,”_ his mind echoed, but Lance no longer fought the hate- he pulled it in like a starving man eating- he relished the pain as it spiked into his core. There was nothing but truth and acceptance, a cold emptiness echoing for the old happiness.

Keith’s heart withered at the short pieces of dialogue fraught with proper, jarring words that **his** Lance wouldn’t be caught dead saying.

Keith inhaled slowly, his eyes roving over the straight posture, the way those blank eyes began to restlessly flicker towards the escape pod hallway. He exhaled, his heart shattering as he realized how far away his Lance was.

He took a step closer, startling the taller boy, and began to speak in the cautious tones one uses with a wounded animal.

“Lance. I know you feel like you have to leave-” Keith held up his hand as the blue paladin snapped his mouth open, ready to defend himself. “No. Let me say what I have to say.” Lance pressed his lips together, obviously annoyed. Keith could tell he solely wanted the conversation to be over, and he yearned for the boy he used to be able to sit and talk with for hours, spilling his soul into the outstretched palms.

The red paladin was self-admittedly bad at words. He knew it was because his personal laws decreed that he could never get near anyone. Getting too close just meant more pain when they inevitably drove a sword through your back. But this was Lance, someone he’d always admired, someone who he’d always thought had his whole life figured out. Flushing, the red paladin fastened his eyes to those dead eyes, clenching himself onto what used to be there. Keith let down his remaining barriers, shuddering as he allowed his true feeling to roll off of his tongue. 

“Lance. Listen to me. You’re not going to believe this, but we need you. The whole team. We need your humor when everything is sour, we need your calming presence when someone is breaking down. We need your raw talent as team sharpshooter. We need the way you fit with our minds when we form Voltron. You are irreplaceable, Lance; there’s no one in the galaxy that is just like you. We could search for a hundred years, heck, we could search every parallel universe for eternity, and yet we could never find you. A person who smiles as brightly as you when he sees a family restored, someone who holds on to his common sense when everything else is going to shit. You’re unique, you’ve got something inside of you that is able to connect with others and infuse your effortless divinity into them. You’re not some piece of trash that we keep around for kicks, Lance, please, listen, you hold us together. Without you, Pidge would’ve gone solo for her family ages ago, Coran wouldn't have anyone to bond with, Hunk would be a dull orange, his vibrant yellow stemming from your friendship. Shiro would be a cruel leader without your joyful leadership poking through in our comms. Allura would be less playful, unknowing of memes or Britney Spears, or the way that our oceans cover 22.465% more of Earth than Altean oceans used to. See? No one loves to solve pointless math problems like you do. And I’d be alone, no one to bond with, isolated, a loner.”

Keith watched Lance’s eyes as his speech flowed through the air between them. To his sorrow, his words had awoken bits and pieces of Lance’s eyes, but not nearly enough. He could tell that the boy was still under the surface, his mind destroying all positivity before it could reach his heart. Lance needed something he wouldn’t be expecting, something that would shake him to the core, shatter that mask and bring forth the boy Keith loved. He didn’t need Keith’s useless words of happiness, he needed something Keith couldn’t give him.

Fear crossed Keith’s mind as he realized he might lose this boy tonight, lose the angel that he had fallen for. He might slip into the inky curtain of space and be lost forever, unyielding to Keith’s desperate attempts at help. He would let his very heart slip through his own careless, fumbling fingers, like the last ray of sunlight flitting away, never to rise again. He felt his soul turn to coal as he comprehended the piece of him that would dissipate if Lance left.

Lance, the one human in the universe that Keith truly, irreversibly, **loved.**

And suddenly Keith knew what to say.

His words became jumbled in his haste to save his friend, jostling one another in their rush to exit his lips.

“And I- I know its probably the last thing you want to hear right now, but I need you too. I need your glowing smile and the way you make my chest feel like lava. I need your sweet words and even your insecurities because then I can hold you and help you realize just how incredible you are. You- you’re like the goddamn sun Lance, you’re always there when I need you, always happy with a joke or a mocking insult to take my mind off something.” Keith inhaled deeply, praying to every deity that it was working, and continued. “Look, I’m not good with words like you are, I can’t spit out an inspirational speech for shit, but what I can do is tell you how vital you are to everyone on this ship. Including me. _Especially_ me.”

Keith exhaled harshly, releasing the emotion that had built with every syllable, unaware how worked up he had gotten. His fists were clenched with the passion and truth behind each word.

Tears threatened his eyelids, pressing impatiently against his skin. Anger at his own incompetence mingled with the deep, tar-like sadness churning in his gut.

“Stay. Please, Lance, if only just for a week, let me show you how important you are.”

Keith looked deep into those sapphire eyes, praying that he could save this bruised soul.

“Okay.”

Lance smiled, a true smile with absolute caring in his eyes, his armor fallen at his feet.

Keith couldn’t help himself, he launched into the taller boys arms, grateful sobbing into the shoulder of someone he had almost lost.

 

_The castle beamed as the two colors blended, churning as they got used to the new presence began to flow in sync with their own heart._

_She glowed as they began to heal one another, despite many nights of pain and words that cut horrifically into them both._

_Time moved on, fluidly changing as time only does, but time helped the relationship root itself deeper into the soils of love. There were scars and there were lips wet with angry spit as they blasted each other with desert waves of scalding pain. There were frigid tears of loneliness, mingling with the occurrence of heated blood. But when things settled again, there was a spring that blossomed, apologies and promises, a lilac love story._

_As they grew older, wire trinkets became golden rings and promises, unchanged through months of healing pods and battles that left unhealable scars._

_Their promises held up when their true leader came home, bloody and aged beyond his years. Keith trusted Lance with his soul: why would it be any different when finding out they had lived with a clone for years?_

_Days blended to years as the universe became peaceful once more, and there was harmony as the worlds sang._

_And now the castle tells her tale, the story of a family and a love so powerful it made the nebulas look dull. She tells it to all of the human storytellers on Earth, the ones who tap out different versions of her memories on their silver pads. She loves how easy those humans are, the ones with a secret fire in their hearts and the souls of carbon._

_So whenever the world turns against you, remember that she’s out there, loving you and treasuring your soul's unique glow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin!

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the extreme _italics._
> 
> Any constructive criticism is welcome! Please kudos/comment.


End file.
